Free The Calamity Café by Gayle Leeson

aren’t arguing.”
    â€œCould’ve fooled me,” said Brooke, tilting her headand pushing her brown corkscrew curls off her right shoulder.
    â€œI’m trying to get her to leave,” Jackie told Brooke. “She’s as jumpy as a frog dropped on a woodstove.”
    â€œWell, I don’t doubt it.” She turned to me. “I heard about you finding Lou Lou. I’m so sorry. I know that had to have been a shock.”
    â€œHow do you do it?” I asked. “You go into work every day in a place where people have died.”
    â€œThat’s true, but in my case, they weren’t murdered. I think that puts a whole different spin on things.”
    â€œStill, it doesn’t creep you out to go into a room where some person just died?” Jackie asked. “I’d hate it.”
    â€œWell, it’s not my favorite part of the job,” said Brooke. “But I’m there to help the living. I concentrate on that.”
    â€œWhat about you, Jackie?” I asked. “Is it going to bother you to keep working here?”
    â€œNot as long as I stay out of that office.”
    â€œEven if Pete sells, and I completely renovate the office?” Actually, the thought of renovating and using the office gave me pause as well.
    â€œHey, I heard you were going to open your own café,” said Brooke. “I think that would be so cool.”
    â€œThanks, Brooke,” I said. “Pete wants me to buy this one, but I have to make sure everyone would be comfortable working here after . . . well, you know.” I kept looking at Jackie because I wanted her to answer my question. If she couldn’t work here, I wouldn’t even consider buying this place anymore. I’d build my own café from scratch.
    â€œI can work here,” Jackie said. “We’ll wipe away every trace of . . . anything bad that ever happened here, and we’ll start all over.”
    I gave her a hug. “Then we’d better get started. I think we have our first customer of the day.”
    Jackie grabbed her notepad and pen. “What’ll you have, Brooke?”
    I went back into the kitchen. I wanted to prepare something different for Lou’s Joint patrons today. I looked into the pantry and the refrigerator to see what I could make with the ingredients on hand. I decided to go with a Scottish shortbread.
    Jackie brought me Brooke’s order and, after making the pancakes, I began mixing up the shortbread. If I could start introducing patrons to new dishes, they’d come to not only accept but expect them . . . and, hopefully, look forward to them.
    I thought back to the first time I’d made Scottish shortbread. The dean over the culinary institute was an intimidating man who reminded me of the film actor Robert Preston. Nana had loved older movies, and
The Music Man
had been one of her favorites.
    But, anyway, the dean had been observing in our classroom that day. I’d been so nervous that when he’d asked me why the shortbread was baked at 350 degrees for ten minutes and then at 300 degrees for forty minutes, I couldn’t sufficiently convey the proper answer—lowering the temperature makes for a flatter, crispier cookie. As I stood there struggling to answer the man, another student in the class stepped up and answered him. He praised her, and she turned to me with a smug smile. I’d decided then and there to stop being intimidated, to never let myfear of failing or looking foolish stand in the way of my stepping up, answering the question, taking a chance.
    That’s what I was doing with the Down South Café—taking a chance. If I failed, I’d at least know that I’dtried.

Chapter 6
    H omer was right on schedule at ten o’clock that morning, and by then, things were almost normal.
    â€œGood morning, Homer. Who’s your hero today?”
    â€œMr. John Lennon.”
    â€œWhoa.